Category Archives: Poems



A steep crevice,

Leads down to the ocean.

I don’t know what,

Has gotten over me.

All I need now,

Is to watch the Tule,

Graze on the hill,

While red-tails swoop above.

All I know now,

Is there is magistery,

In a dirt trail

That ends with the warm beach.



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Sun’s Last Rays

Let’s take a walk.

Walk with me along the cliffs.

We don’t need to talk.

I want to watch the clouds,

rush in to fill the fields with fog,

and sway the wet grass.

I want to watch the sunrise,

the birds take off, hear fires crack,

listen to the sounds of morning.

Let’s hike down to the river,

and witness the steam rising,

over the fresh musky earth.

Later we can jump into a car,

and listen to the Bee Gee’s,

AC/DC, and the Stones.

I can be looking at the road,

and you out the window,

and we can not say a word.

And then we will stop, fuel up,

and talk and talk and talk,

and time flies by like no tomorrow.

And everything is alright,

and nothing really matters, and yet,

it all matters to some degree…but not.

And what really matters most is life.

And we agree, “There are too many trails,

walked alone”.

As we pull into the next site,

and without a word, go to work,

setting up camp under monumental trees.

Leaving time for dinner and a hike.

I love you as the evening light,

beams through the canopy of leaves.

When I get old, I hope to sit and watch you,

with your legs crossed, breath in deep,

and hold my hand as I take in the sun’s last rays.

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Two Thousand Year Old Dream

Trekking on the ambient music,

We tuned into space mood.

We needed something outside,

Of chillwave for the road.

We got beat-focused on the down-

Tempo, nu-Jazz,

And rad samples interlaced with

Dance-y beats… and low fill.

Tripping and grinning,

In our new identities,

We rolled the Magnum,

Down the Avenue of the Giants,

To sleep like puppies under trees,

Older than Jesus Christ.

Yeah, that’s how we roll.

Feeling like prana?

Take a deep breath.

We gathered stones along the river,

Snapped photos of each other’s butts,

And watched the rippling water.

We climbed the switchbacks and slopes.

And didn’t let anyone tell us no.

I said, “This world is getting too complicated,

But nature is still the best dope.”

She knew exactly,

What I was talking about.

I still hate double rainbows.

I’m not a psychic.

I also hate tie-dyes and crystals.

I can’t predict shit.

I don’t read horoscopes.

I can’t tell you what’s happening,

Let alone what going to happen..

All of this gives me a bad name,

With the hippies.

Don’t worry,

I’m not a Christian, either.

I don’t even believe in Christ.

I can’t tell you if Jesus,

Was an actual man or just a myth.

I certainly don’t have faith,

He could walk on water,

Or raise the dead…including himself.

But I would love to walk on water.

Think of all those rivers I could cross,

Without getting my feet wet.

I would also like to be a superhero,

Just not with weird, hippie psychic powers.

I’m not a Muslim, either.

Heck, I’m not a Jew or Hindu.

I couldn’t give a foo,

About following your Voodoo.

Nor do I give a shinto,

Over you following your Dr. Who.

Do you dig it?

I’d rather listen to electronica,

Under 2,000 year old redwoods,

And gaze up between the branches,

Laughing and laughing,

About the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

I’d rather push aside all the misery,

Conflict, bigotry, and the litany

Of other man-made calamities and ask,

The woman I love standing next to me,

“Is it time to make a fire,

Prepare a meal, and lay our bed?”

So that we can finally,

Throw arms and legs around each other,

Listen to some breakbeat and space mood,

And then sleep..side by side.

As in a 2,000 year old dream.

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I woke to the smell of sage.

She was holding the air. She danced

above the flowers and defied gravity.

I grabbed one of Saturn’s rings,

In order to give her a gift worthy,

Of a soaring witch capturing the ozone.

She lifts trees out of the earth,

And plants them on the moon.

Astonishingly, she inspires foliage,

To flourish in the harsh vacuum of space.

If this is a dream don’t wake me.

I’d rather be a floating particle,

Swimming in the caverns of her breath,

Than a rotting corpse robbed of love.


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Another Dead Bush


I knew it was over when the rose bush died.

Symbolic of the parched times we shared.

Ironically, we dried up during in the rainy season.


It was sad to see what was once moist,

And untiring evaporate into an impoverished shrub,

Pleading to be dug up and composted.


I have died a thousand times with a thousand,

Different mitts around my neck. Yet, I refuse,

To pull the skin over my eyes and hide from love.


Tomorrow another radiant woman will unfold,

And place her tiny fingers over my lips,

Whispering a new song to my bed and garden.


And we will plant azaleas and golden apples,

While breathing-in the cool Pacific breeze.


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Night Strolls


It was nearly midnight and I was feeling restless.

The moon was full when I wandered onto the trails.

The smell of Bay leaves brimmed the air.


Your silence was heard loud and clear. You whispered,

Into my ear nothing but the breath of a woman,

Walking out the door and into her own personal forest.


I wanted to save you but I didn’t have the force.

I was fighting off my own whirlwind, and losing the contest.

I too needed to walk off into the woods alone.


After the earthquake the boards in the old house creaked.

As if she was telling me a home is not a home,

Unless there is a woman unequivocally in love.


I knew I was unable to deliver the goods. I needed,

To walk the trails at night and find my own strange way.


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Hurricane: A Collection of Poems

Hurricane A Collection of Poems

I am pleased to announce Expats Publishing’s first ebook, “Hurricane: A Collection of Poems” by Dean Walker (me). Edited by Expats Founding Member Melody Haislip.

Proceeds from this book goes to fund the websites,, and

Here is what another Expats Founding Member and successful published author has already said about the book:

“Dean, congratulations on the book. I have just read it and won’t be asking for money back. That was amazing, brought up so many emotions. You totally hit the nail on the head with these poems about the feelings, the low points as a relationship breaks down and the aftermath. Tomorrow I will Sing, Suicide Watch, Wild Geese and Lost were just a few of the ones where I was like ‘woh, these are really good’ and ending it with Voluptuous Cool Breath’d Earth was just a lift after plummeting those previous depths. I’m going to read this again this weekend as it definitely deserves more than one read (I was only going to read a few before bed but ended up reading the entire book). Superb Dean truly. As honest as it gets in writing, and I don’t even read that much poetry, was like one song after another or a set of stories. An accomplishment, and an inspiration towards honest writing from the heart, not to mention beautifully written and I’m looking forward to reading it again.” – Garry Crystal

Help Expats Media continue to pursue its mission to “promote writers and artists working outside the mainstream media” by purchasing this book. Money back guarantee!

Pick-up the book for only $4.99 at That’s just $1 per chapter. A great deal that helps out a valuable media project.

Buy your copy today:


Dean Walker

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Sonoma County’s Finest

blackberry bush

The fruit on the blackberry bush are shriveled and black.

The gravel driveway has washed-away and then there is you.

The gutters are clogged and falling-off the roof,

Due to the weight of neglect, and then there is you.

There are a few broken panes that we covered with cardboard,

To keep out the draft. And then there is me,

Going over the bills at midnight while you are asleep.

There is the two of us clinging to each other to conserve heat.

The beer bottles are piled-up around the kitchen sink.

The screen doors are torn to shreds and wasting away.

The crystal meth is apparent on our face,

And there is no escaping the obvious truth of you and me.

All the apples have fallen and the deer are having a feast,

While Sonoma County Sheriff knock and grind their teeth.


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Ghost Imprint

I never know if you really existed.
I remember only your ghost imprint,
a flowing white cotton nightgown,
your naked silhouette apparent by light.

I remember the fragrance of jasmine,
pots of hot oolong tea,
curry salmon with mashed potatoes,
and spooning while half asleep.

Your image is of questionable reality,
a breeze blowing through the window,
the dancing of the curtains,
no one ever really knows for sure.

What is real is uncertain.
What happened is forgettable.


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Open Window

Approach me in my sleep, come to me in dreams.
Blow in as a breeze through my open window.
Stir-up the curtains and rattle the glass panes.
My body lies on death’s bed clinching to a pillow.

Waiting for love to float in like an apparition,
to rescue me from this desperate affliction,
to dose me out of this drear hallucination,
to whisper into my ear, to speak of the years

long ago when love was real. When warm tears
were streams of joy. Sing softly as I am fragile
and yearn for the tenderness of the past.
Breathe into my lips so that I might last

one more day in your deep song of affection.
One more play in your ghostly presence.
Approach me in my sleep, come to me in dreams.
Blow in as a breeze through my open window.


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